I google ‘homemade mouse traps’. According to the Internet, I need a bucket, a stick, and some peanut butter. I have access to all of those things. I put the bucket in the middle of the kitchen floor. As per the instructions, I smear the peanut butter heavily around the inside of it. I then put the ‘optional’ four inches of water into the bucket. The stick is resting between the floor and the rim. Apparently the mouse will run up the stick, following the smell of peanut butter, fall into the bucket and drown. If I don’t put the water in, it will get stuck in the bucket and be unable to escape. Both methods catch the mouse. So I guess it’s just down to me and how much I want the little sod to die.

I stare at the water and imagine the dead mouse floating in it. Why is that so unbearable?

I jump when I realise Bonnie is standing by the kitchen table. This time I manage not to scream at her.

‘What are you doing?’ she asks me.

‘Go back to the sofa please,’ I tell her. She doesn’t move.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Bonnie, there is a mouse in the kitchen and I am trying to catch it.’

‘A mouse?’ she asks, excitedly.

I carry on building.

‘What’s that?’ she asks.

‘It’s a trap.’

‘Why is it a trap?’

‘So I can catch the mouse.’

‘Why is there water in it?’

‘So it … because when it falls into the bucket … because if there is no water then it won’t …’

I empty the water out again. I have no idea how I will cope if I find a live mouse in the bucket, but for some reason the idea of a drowned one is even worse. If Bonnie saw it first she’d be quite upset by it. If I catch a live one and it can’t get out maybe I can put a bread board over it and Liam can get rid of it when he picks Bonnie up on Friday. Whatever, I probably won’t even catch it. This trap is ridiculous.

‘Can I keep it?’ Bonnie asks, coming closer.

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s a mouse and they’re dirty and I hate them.’

‘You shouldn’t say hate. You have so many words, why do you say hate?’

‘It’s not that you can’t say hate, it’s that you should reserve it for the things you actually hate. Like, I really do hate mice. They scare me.’

‘Scare you, why?’

Oh for God’s sake.

‘They scare me because they’re tiny, and so quick. And they make horrid scratchy noises and wee all over everything. They spread disease and they’re furry and …’ I shiver, I need to stop talking about them. I feel like they are all over me again.